"I highly doubt that any news that you have to give me is neither amazing nor pleasant in the least," he scowled. Jim pouted, making the frown lines on Sherlock's face deepen.
"I've got something for you," Jim teased, reaching a hand into his blazer pocket and brandishing a needle.
"Moriarty!" Sherlock hissed, his intense glare intimidating Jim slightly, "I'm in hospital. and even if I weren't, I don't want to be dependant on taking drugs from you."
Jim gave Sherlock an exaggerated expression of pain, "Oh, Sherlock! You're breaking my heart!"
"Fuck off," he hissed, waving a shooing hand at Jim. Jim chuckled and caught the hand, planting a cheeky kiss on the top of it. Sherlock scowled and pulled away before punching him in the face. Jim fell off the chair and collapsed on the ground, his psychopathic grin playing on his lips.
"Oh, yes," he groaned, "that was a good punch. Mmm..."
"You're sick!" Sherlock spat, disgusted by the masochist that kneeled on the floor next to his bed.
"I'm not the one in hospital," he quipped, standing and grinning evilly at Sherlock. He climbed onto the bed, pinning down Sherlock's suddenly flailing form and leaning his head in towards the boy, "you know, I was quite upset when I found out you'd hurt Johnny boy. I don't like having competition."
"Get the fuck off me!"
"I'm not worried though. Once you're living with me, I'll make sure you don't see him or any other boy ever again."
"You think I care about him?"
"You care enough to touch him! Nobody gets to touch you but me! You're mine, Sherlock!" Jim screamed, fury running across all his features. Sherlock was genuinely scared, the boy pinning him down was truly insane.
"I'm not living with you. No way in hell," Sherlock stated, hiding his fear.
"You'll do whatever the fuck I want," Jim hissed, stabbing the needle into Sherlock and pressing the plunger, "or your house won't be the only thing I burn this week."
"Hey Jim," John started. It had been a week since the fire, and John was concerned for, "have you seen Sherlock? Apparently the hospital released him a couple of days ago..."
"Oh, yeah," Jim smiled, "he's living with me."
"Really?" John cleared his throat, trying to hide the excitement behind his words. Jim looked at him suspiciously, "I mean... really? That's... good. Will he be coming back to school?"
"Not any time soon," Jim explained, "he's still recovering so it might take a few days or a few weeks. I'm not sure," he chuckled, "I'm not a doctor."
"Maybe I could visit him sometime?" John asked hesitantly. Jim stopped in his tracks and quickly glared at John.
"No," he hissed before softening his face and smiling with an eerie warmth, "I think he just really needs to rest right now."
He turned back and walked calmly to the classrooms. John smiled weakly and followed him down the corridor.
Upon John's return home, he pulled a phone book out of a cupboard near the kitchen and flicked through it. It wasn't that he didn't trust Jim... he just...
"I don't trust him..." he mumbled solemnly. He stopped when the book reached the 'M' section and ran his finger down the page. He stopped on the only entry under Moriarty and scribbled the address on a scrap of paper, rushing out of the house and down the street.
The air was chilly as he walked towards the town, the lack of features across the landscape meant that the wind was at its full ferocity, whipping at John's clothes and exposed skin. As he reached the centre of the small, partially derelict town, he came across a community of houses that looked particularly deserted. He checked the scrap of paper and, sure enough, one of the disgusting houses matched the address. He cautiously approached the door, noting the peeling paint and fungus that grew on the bare wood of the door. A single shutter was drawn across a patch of door just above his head. He grabbed the cold, greasy knocker and rapped on the door. The metal shutter slid across with a squeal and John jumped when intense glaring eyes met his.
"Yeah?" the burly owner of the eyes asked, "whaddya want?"
"Umm... I'm here to see Jim Moriarty. He's a... friend of mine."
The doorman gave a gravelly chuckle, "mate, 'e doesn't live 'ere. You must be a new guy. Come in."
The door unlocked and John was shown inside. It was almost as dreary as the outside of the building. John was confused by this whole ordeal, but followed the muscled doorman down the derelict hallways.
"So what'd 'e drag you in for? Drugs? Whores? Both?" he chuckled again, "usually I'd do a background check of all the visitors, but not very many people know about Mr. Moriarty 'imself, so I trust ya."
John nodded and made an absent noise of agreement. He heard distressing noises from behind most of the doors. Moans behind some, cries from another, but the ones that troubled him the most were the silent ones. The empty rooms had open doors, but the silent, closed rooms prodded at the back of his mind. What if Sherlock was in one of these rooms?
"Umm... perhaps you've seen another friend of mine," John asked the doorman, "he should have come in recently. He's about my age with dark, curly hair, pale skin, striking blue eyes..."
"Yeah, the Holmes kid. You in here for the same thing?"
"Uh... Yeah..."
"Then I'm sure he'd enjoy your company," the doorman smiled before opening a ratty door a little further down the hall and pushing John inside. The door closed with a locking click and John noticed there was no handle on the inside. He heard a whimper from behind him and saw the lanky boy curled in on himself in the corner. John rushed over to him, hovering his hands over Sherlock's trembling body. He lightly touched one of Sherlock's arms, and the boy lashed out at him. John scurried back into the opposite corner, watching the heaving boy with fear. Sherlock's pupils were dilated and he was scratching absently at his arm.
"Sherlock?" John called warily. Sherlock flicked his eyes up to meet him, and he stared at him with a placid look strewn across his face, "Sherlock, it's me. It's John."
"Jo..hn?" Sherlock droned. A single tear formed in his eye, dribbling down his cheek and hanging from his deathly pale jaw. He took a pained step forward, his feet looking heavy as he stumbled across the floor. He collapsed when he drew nearer to John, his head falling in his lap and his arms sprawling across John's folded legs. John's face darkened to a deep crimson as Sherlock stroked his legs, "you're as soft as I remember... My dear John..."
"Sherlock?" John called again, "Sherlock, what's wrong with you?"
"This is the only way I can see you. Stay with me," he mumbled. John pushed at his shoulders, but Sherlock resisted and continued to pet him. John sighed and waited for Sherlock to... to... well, stop whatever he was doing.
"Sherly!" A familiar, yet muffled, voice sang from behind the heavy door. John pushed Sherlock off him and hid under the nasty bed. God only knew what Jim would do to him if he found him in there. He watched as Jim sprang through the door and smiled at the sleeping form of Sherlock. He kicked him lightly with his foot and Sherlock roused into the waking world. Sherlock's eyes flicked to John under the bed, and he held his breath as the semi-conscious boy's pale eyes bore into his for that split second.
"Up," Jim commanded harshly. Sherlock obliged and wobbled on his feet in front of Jim. Jim handed over a needle and kissed Sherlock's cheek before leaving the room. John's blood boiled at the sight, though he didn't know what was more infuriating- the fact that Jim was a drug dealer, that Sherlock was an addict or that Jim had placed his disgusting lips on Sherlock.
But why should he care so much about the latter?
Sherlock slumped back on the floor and curled into a ball.
"You can come out now," he murmured. John crawled out from under the bed and sat near Sherlock, who was staring listlessly at the wall in front of him.
"Sherlock, what have you done?" John whispered, "why the drugs?"
"It's the only way I can see John."
"John?" he asked, confused. Sherlock sighed heavily and turned the needle in his hand.
"John was the only one who cared about me. He died last Christmas. Ever since then... everything turned to shit. Mycroft was out so often that he couldn't protect me from my father, my mother disappeared, and my house burnt down. The only one that cares about me now is Jim," Sherlock explained.
"Bullshit," John hissed, "Jim doesn't give a flying fuck. If he really cared, he'd stop you from taking these drugs. He wants you, but he doesn't care about you."
John grabbed the needle from Sherlock's hand, threw it on the ground and stepped on it. Sherlock continued to stare listlessly at the wall. John tugged at his arm and pulled him to his feet, settling Sherlock's weight on his shoulder. He dragged Sherlock out of the room and back down the disgusting hallway. The doorway was empty when he reached it, making John look around cautiously as he unlocked it. He helped Sherlock out the door when he suddenly heard the gravelled voice of the doorman yelling at him.
"Where do you think you're going?" he bellowed. John jumped in fear and hurried Sherlock down the street. He heard a click and a loud bang from behind him and suddenly a searing pain tore through his left shoulder. He cried out in pain, stumbling slightly before tugging the lucid boy through the dirty alleyways of the houses. Thankfully, the doorman hadn't chased after them, and when he finally got to the main road and flagged down a bus, he clutched at his shoulder and collapsed on the side of the road. Sherlock slowly came back to reality as he stared at the unconscious boy lying on the pavement. The bus driver had clambered out of the bus to check on him before calling the ambulance. Sherlock knelt next to John, ripping off a piece of his shirt and holding it against the wound.
"John... Don't leave me..." He whispered to the golden-haired boy, tears forming at his eyes, "Don't leave me again... John..."
*~*